Fado is 'as defined' as the soul of Portugal and it is argued among others, as to when first it came about. Yet, here we were in this barra...light from the candles arking off the ceiling and soon to be, an old lady would softly bark from her soul, the mourning of those who lost others at sea, or the sadness of those esperando o retorno do marinheiro, again, soon to be. Fado en Lisboa.....
You see now, our softly encased friends, or 'them'... have been lacking. The pine boughs lay somewhat untouched it would seem for months....My eyes though have locked on to movement in the misty branches...shadowy figures that skip. Could it at last be 'them"? Have the seaman returned home? Have the mournful words of Fado been heard and now, they or them are returned. Graciously with soul, I arise a bit..... my hopes, my time to wait perhaps has passed.
But like the mothers and wives and children of past times, and across the seaway, no less--- lays a dawn of apprehension. Yes, yes.....I see the sail above the horizon. I can let my guard down and allow the world to enter. I am no longer bent and old, but have a new slant, ...and straight and young.
Thru the darkness of the boughs, the light creeps to. A highlighted figure parts the haven and tip toes it, or so seems, to the end of a branch. It then climbs its way up, one bough, to another....to another. Just one lone figure, just one.
And so the first Junco has returned.